She squirmed in disgust at his touch, her eyes flashing. “Let me up, you plaguey dog!”
He shook his head and laughed. “To think I very nearly beat you like a child. I should have realized…all that passion. Not childlike at all. But why waste your fire in anger? Why foul your lips with curses, when they could be put to better use?” He bent down, his face close to hers. His breath smelled of liquor, sour and pungent.
“Cursed rogue,” she muttered. “Drunken sot. I would rather the beating than the kiss.”
“Perhaps I can oblige you with both,” he said, and silenced her mouth with his.
His lips were hard and demanding, rapacious in their greed, the desire for self-gratification. And when she groaned and bucked beneath him, Ridley chuckled deep in his throat, as though her struggles only increased the enjoyment of his mastery over her. Without releasing either her lips or her hands, he shifted his body so his considerable weight pressed upon her breast and his free hand rested on the juncture between her legs.
Allegra had a sudden, terrifying memory of Mama, gasping in pain and grief as Squire Pringle violated her frail body. She could hear again the animal sounds she’d heard, night after night in the dark. Hear her mother’s heartbroken sobs as the master, satisfied once more, slunk away to his own bed. No! It mustn’t happen to her. She was stronger than Mama. Hadn’t she survived until now?
Despite her rising panic, she forced herself to think clearly. If Ridley wasn’t completely drunk, he’d certainly had a great deal to drink this morning. His senses would be dulled, his reflexes numbed by alcohol. Surely she could outwit him if she put her mind to it.
With a sigh, she relaxed under him in seeming surrender. She even managed a moan of pleasure when he began to stroke her inner thigh, his large hand hot through her breeches. He grunted his contentment, softened his kiss, eased his hard grip upon her wrists. How easily gulled men could be, she thought. And if he was anything like the lecherous pigs in Carolina, no doubt he enjoyed kissing in the French manner. She prayed it was so. She parted her lips beneath his, hoping he’d understand and respond to her invitation. To her satisfaction, he immediately opened his own mouth and thrust his tongue between her lips and teeth. She waited a second—fighting her disgust—them bit down with all her might.
He let out a bellow and flew off her as though he’d been shot sitting up to clutch at his bloody mouth. “Damned bitch!” he roared.
She gave him no chance to recover. She scrambled to her knees and drove her fist into his diaphragm with all her strength. He recoiled in agony and doubled over, gasping for breath. She was on her feet in a flash. She snatched up her three-cornered hat, pulled her knife from his boot top and turned toward the footpath. Her mouth was bitter with the taste of his blood; bitterer still with the knowledge that time was passing and she was no nearer her goal. Her stomach burned with hunger, and London and Wickham were long miles and days away. Somehow, that made her hate Ridley all the more. Ridley, with his careless, shallow lechery. What did he know of true suffering?
She retraced her steps to where he still sat, rocking in pain. “Filthy whoremonger,” she said, and spat his own blood upon his bent head. When he looked up at her, she was pleased to see that the cold, indifferent eyes were—for the first time—dark with rage. “Laugh that away, Ridley,” she said. “If you can.” She turned on her heel and made for the safety of the trees…and the direction that would take her eventually to London and Wickham.
And bloody vengeance.
Sir Greyston Morgan, Lord Ridley, late of His Majesty’s Guards and survivor of many an incursion against the Mogul Empire, gingerly rubbed the sore spot beneath his ribs and muttered a soft curse. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the spittle from his hair, grunting at the pain that small effort cost him. The absurdity of the whole episode served to temper his anger. “Ambushed, begad,” he said, beginning to laugh in spite of his discomfort. He stuck out his tongue and dabbed at it, marveling at the amount of blood on the snowy linen. It was a wonder the virago hadn’t bitten his tongue clean off!
“Are you hurt, milord?” Jonathan Briggs stood on the edge of the path, frowning in concern.
Grey struggled to his feet and glared at his steward. It was one thing to be outwitted by a wench. It was quite another matter to be caught at it by a servant. “Damn it, I thought I told you not to follow.”
“We heard you cry out, milord.” Briggs looked around the small clearing. “Where’s the boy?”
Grey took a tentative step forward, relieved to discover that he could breathe almost normally again. “The ‘boy,’ Briggs, turned out to be a woman.” His tongue was still bleeding; he stopped to spit a mouthful of blood against the base of a tree. “And a damned shifty bitch at that.”
Briggs watched in dismay. “Was the wench responsible for his? I’ll send Humphrey after her.”
“No. Let her be. I’ll wager she’s halfway to London by now.”
“What’s to be done now, milord?”
Grey moved slowly to the steward and leaned his arm on the man’s shoulder. “Help me back to the coach and open that bottle of gin.”
Briggs shook his head in disapproval. “But, milord, do you think it wise, so early in the day?”
He swore softly. “You tell me what’s worth staying sober for, Briggs, and I’ll stay sober. Until then, you’ll keep me supplied with all the drink I need. And no insolence. Is that understood?”
Briggs pressed his lips together and nodded.
By the time they’d reached the coach, Grey was feeling a good deal better. At least his tongue and his ribs were feeling better. He wasn’t sure of anything else. There was something disturbing about the woman. Something about her eyes, so large and dark and filled with pain…“Damn it, Briggs,” he growled, “where’s that gin?” He snatched the small flask from the steward’s hand and took a long, mind-numbing swallow. Why should he let the thought of a savage creature with a dirty face get under his hide?
“Do you still want to go down to Ludlow, milord?”
“Of course. The blacksmith promised to have that Toledo blade repaired by today.”
“Are you sure you don’t want someone to go after the woman?”
“I told you, no!”
“But she tried to kill you. What if she should return and try again?”
“She wants Ellsmere, not me.” He smiled crookedly. “I pity him if the witch should find him.” He took another swig of gin and shrugged. “Besides, if she should return to kill me, I’m no great loss.”
“Nonsense, milord. You’re a great man, admired and respected by your tenants and servants. Everyone in the parish honors Lord Ridley.”
Grey threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Such kind flattery, Briggs. You do it well, as befits a man of honor. But how difficult it must be for you. To serve a man you don’t even like. You’re the second son of a knight, aren’t you? You were predestined to inherit nothing from your father except his good wishes. Well, a house steward is a fine calling for a man with few prospects and a good education. And money speaks with a loud voice, as I’ve learned.” He leaned back in his seat and tapped his long fingers against the bottle of gin. “How much am I paying you?”
“Forty pounds, milord,” murmured Briggs. He watched in silence, his solemn eyes registering dismay, as Grey downed the last of the gin.
The liquor stung Grey’s injured tongue, but he was beginning to feel better and better. He chuckled softly. “What a disappointment I must be to you, Briggs. I think your upbringing was better than mine, though I, too, was the second son of a title. I regret that I don’t suit your ideas of proper nobility here in Shropshire. But if you can learn to hide that look of disgust on your face, I give you leave to take another thirty pounds per annum. If not”—he shrugged—“it’s simple enough to buy loyalty elsewhere, if one has the money.” He laughed at the sullen look Briggs shot at him. “God’s truth, I think if my brother hadn’t died and left me his fortune and title, you�
�d be pleased to knock me to my knees at this very moment. But you’re too much a gentleman for that. Too respectful of a man’s rank, even if he’s undeserving. Eh, Briggs?” He laughed again as the steward reddened and turned away.
Grey closed his eyes. The rocking of the coach soothed him. And the gin had done its work. It was good to feel nothing but a comfortable hum in his brain. There was a surfeit of passion in the world, a stupid waste of emotion. He hated it. Hated caring, hated feeling. It was better to be numb than to suffer with rage and pain, one’s soul exposed to the agony of the human condition. Raw flesh held to an open flame. Like that ragged, dark-eyed creature, who burned with an intensity he couldn’t begin to understand. That he didn’t want to understand.
“Briggs,” he said suddenly. “Do you remember the red-haired serving wench at the King’s Oak tavern in Newton? Find out if she’s still as agreeable as before. If so, pay her double what you did last time. Then see that she’s waiting in my bed tonight.”
“Yes, milord.” Briggs’s voice was sharp with disapproval.
Grey opened his eyes and smiled cynically. “She’s a shallow, greedy whore, Briggs. I know. But—like the gin—she gives me what I want. Forgetfulness.”
And plague take all sad-eyed creatures who overflowed with more passion than their hearts could safely hold.
Chapter Two
The warm noon sun sparkled through the leafy trees, and the thicket hummed with insects. Allegra stopped to lift her cocked hat and mop her damp brow with her sleeve. Then she replaced the hat and peeled off her coat. She was beginning to feel lightheaded. She had begged a bowl of thin soup at a tavern near Ludlow last night, but it had scarcely filled the vast emptiness of her belly. And this morning she’d found no one with a scrap of charity, or even bread, for a ragged, filthy urchin who had spent the night in a ditch. She tossed her coat over one shoulder, casting her eyes to either side of the footpath as she resumed her walk. Surely this wasn’t her lucky day. Not even a patch of berries to ease her hunger.
She sighed. She should have filched a copper or two from Ridley’s pocket as he sat helpless and writhing on the ground. It was the least she was owed. The fat burghers in Charles Town had been willing to part with silver for a slobbering kiss and a sweaty hand to her breast. She sighed again. Heigh-ho. She’d have to make the best of it. Ridley’s gatekeeper had spoken of a workhouse in Newton. If she couldn’t beg a meal or a coin in the village, she’d spend a precious day and toil for her supper. It was one more delay, of course, but what could she do? She had to eat.
“Patience, Anne Allegra,” her mother had admonished her, each time she had waited for Papa to return from London bearing gifts for his little princess. “The Baniards know how to bide their time.”
Aye, Mama, she thought sadly. Eight long years of patience.
She emerged from the trees to a narrow road that bisected the path and curved away down a steep hill. The far side of the road was bordered by a dense hawthorn hedge that blocked the view beyond. A crumbling section of an old wall, gray-green with moss, stood beside the continuation of the footpath like a sleepy sentry. Over the top of the wall Allegra could see the whole valley laid out below her: lush green farmland, hedged-in pastures dotted with the white puffs of sheep, and—off in the distance—the small cluster of buildings that was Newton-in-the-Vale.
“Godamercy,” she breathed, and leaned against the wall, trembling with feelings that had nothing to do with hunger. Curse her memories, that brought such pain. How often had she come here as a little girl, marching along the road or through the woods, her hand enclosed in the strong fingers of her big brother? “Lift me up, Charlie,” she would say, standing on tiptoe to crane her neck over the wall that was always and forever too high. And Charlie would swing her up and seat her on the old stones, his arms wrapped protectively around her to keep her safe while she took in the view.
She inhaled a deep, steadying breath and closed her eyes. It was foolishness, to allow the past to crowd back and unnerve her. How was she to do what she must, if she allowed herself womanly weakness? She had no right even to think of herself and her pain—not while there was vengeance yet to be done. She opened her eyes with reluctance to the sweet, familiar vista and sighed. It was no use. Here—amid the hills she had called home, the green stretches and the scented thyme, the rolling crests of Wenlock Edge that rose to a vivid blue sky and the song of the summer larks—it was impossible to hold back the memories.
She saw Lucinda’s face, beautiful at sixteen, her eyes shining with joy as Papa spoke of the marriage he intended to arrange for his elder daughter. He’d found a wonderful suitor: a handsome and important young duke, who didn’t feel degraded to marry the daughter of a mere baronet. Not when the daughter was as exquisite as Lucinda. And Charlie had teased Lucinda when she blushed, rosy as the summer sun setting over the chimneys of Baniard Hall. And Papa had spoken briefly and indifferently of the political quarrels that raged in London between the Tories and the Whigs—so far from the serenity of their lives—and had called for supper to be served on the lawn under the ancient oak trees.
There had been enough of politics in the past, when the great civil wars had torn apart the countryside. Grandfather—like most of his Shropshire neighbors—had been a Royalist, supporting the king. The Wickhams, upstarts come down from Chester, had thrown in their lot with Cromwell. They had become fat and rich under the Protector, carving out a large estate in the next parish, acquiring titles and lands far beyond their expectations. The Ellsmere Barony for a family of mere clerks!
And when King Charles had been restored to the throne, the Wickhams had managed to survive—reduced to a small manor house, but still as proud and overbearing as they’d been in their prime. And Grandfather and the old Lord Ellsmere had kept the hatred and the animosity alive through the years, vying with each other at Court, quarreling each time they met at Shrewsbury or Ludlow.
Papa had been made of different stuff. He had avoided the bitter poison of politics, content to live in peace with his neighbors and whomever sat upon the throne. He had even invited John, the new Baron Ellsmere, to visit at the Hall. A generous gesture, though Wickham had been rude and surly all afternoon, Allegra remembered.
When the German George had been brought from Hanover to wear the English crown as George I, Papa hadn’t cared. Not if it meant peace and stability for England. He had ignored the pleas of his old Tory friends to join the Stuart cause and fight for James in Scotland.
“A lost cause,” he had said. “The Stuarts have had their day, and the world moves on. They can bring nothing but grief and dissension now to England.” And surely the abortive uprising in the winter of 1715 had seemed to bear witness to Papa’s wisdom. After James Stuart had been defeated and his partisans executed, peace had returned to the country.
And then…the arrest. The incriminating letters—that Papa swore were forged—tying him to the Jacobite cause. The trial and conviction. John Wickham’s reward—Baniard Hall—for his loyalty to the new king. For his exposure of the wicked plot, his fortuitous “discovery” of the letters.
And the sentence against the whole Baniard family, traitors all, in the eyes of the court: transportation to America. For Papa, life slavery on the plantations. Seven years of bondage for Mama and Charlie. Even soft, gentle Lucinda hadn’t been spared the sentence of bond servitude.
Allegra, a happy child soon to turn ten, had suddenly found herself drowning in bewilderment and terror, hearing snatches of conversation she didn’t understand, watching Mama weep in despair, Charlie rage against the Wickhams, Papa mutter to himself, like a walking corpse. Everything had changed. Her sweet life had vanished. She had clung to her family—her rock and support—as the world had crumbled.
And even they had been taken from her.
She shook off her melancholy. It accomplished nothing to dwell on the past. The sooner John Wickham was dead and buried, the sooner she could lay the Baniard ghosts to rest. She turned her head away f
rom the familiar old wall and regained the footpath.
After a few minutes, she came to a halt and held her breath, listening, her senses suddenly alert. A soft rustle was coming from a thicket at a small distance from the path. If English rabbits made the same noises as American creatures, she thought, that was surely her dinner, somewhere under the trees. She moved cautiously toward it, holding her coat outspread and at the ready. She stopped. In a moment, a small brown-and-gray rabbit appeared, scampering toward her, its large ears twitching. As it stopped to sniff the air, Allegra froze. Hunger made her senses sharp, honed the skills of survival she’d learned through the years. Gammer Pringle had always tempered her cruelty if there was a rabbit stew bubbling on her Carolina hearth.
The rabbit, satisfied of its safety, continued on its way. Here, thought Allegra grimly, scarcely daring to breathe. Come this way, you sweet, tender morsel.
The creature was not two feet from her when she pounced, falling to her knees and throwing her coat over the rabbit at the same time. It struggled in vain to free itself. Allegra pressed her hands against the squirming body, sought—through the folds of her coat—the vulnerable neck, and gave it a violent twist. The animal lay still. Cautiously, Allegra lifted her coat and held up the warm body by its ears.
“Now what am I to do?” she muttered. She had her knife to skin the little thing. But not a tinder box to make a fire. And she wasn’t of a mind to eat the coney raw, no matter how empty her belly. Well, if she could practice Baniard patience for a little longer, she’d trade the rabbit in Newton for a good hot meal. Her mouth watered with the thought of it. She rose to her feet.
“Now here be a thieving, poaching cove, Lord love me.”
Allegra’s head snapped up in surprise at the soft voice behind her.
“Turn slow-like, my gallows-bird,” continued the voice. “I have a pistol what is aimed at you.”
Summer Darkness, Winter Light Page 2